


I Padri d'Italia

by MartinEA



Series: I Genitori d'Italia [1]
Category: Il Padre d'Italia (2017)
Genre: Domestic, Gen, I don't know anything about babies why did i choose to write about a baby, Kid Fic, Paolo just gets fucking bullied for 10k words, Trans Character, baby innacurracy i guess, enemies to friends to coparents, he deserves it, who is an asshole. just the meanest prick ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartinEA/pseuds/MartinEA
Summary: "We've got to make her watch Winx when she's a bit older," Valerio said as he was flipping through one of Italia's baby books, spread out horizontally on the couch. "But only the first seasons. No self respecting Italian child living under this roof will watch that 3-D garbage."Paolo, who was younger than Valerio and had still been too old to watch the show as it came out, said, "The first seasons were bad too. It makes no difference.""How would you know, orphan boy?""I grew up in an orphanage, not a prison. We did actually have TVs. And don't call me orphan boy again unless you're looking to get punched."-Or: Paolo adopts Italia and then subsequently gets adopted by his ex and his prickly boyfriend.
Relationships: Mario (Il Padre d'Italia)&Paolo Guerrisi, Valerio (Il Padre d'Italia)&Paolo Guerrisi
Series: I Genitori d'Italia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093169
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	I Padri d'Italia

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was the lovechild of my and @bernard-the-rabbit (on tumblr)'s musings about how post-movie!Paolo should definitely communally raise Italia with Mario.   
> Fair warning that I haven't had contact with an infant since that one time family friends of my mom's let me hold their newborn son. I was eight then. Don't expect any baby accuracy.

When Paolo took Italia back home, to his baby-proofed apartment, crib right by his bed, dozens of packs of diapers he’d been told he’d run through pretty quickly, cabinets full of baby formula, bag full of toys and teething rings, he felt a mix of emotions. One was overwhelming, all consuming love for the tiny creature nestled asleep in his arms. 

Another was hubris. 

Surely taking care of a baby would be easy. He’d researched it all before Italia had been fit to leave the hospital. He’d read baby books, forums, stories by single parents who shared their hardships and their triumphs. He felt prepared. Ready. There was a thrum in his veins that sang in his blood as he set tiny Italia in her crib, freshly changed in her pyjamas without her stirring once. He rested his head on his arms and traced her delicate features with his eyes and knew for certain that they were going to get through this. 

And then Italia woke up. And cried. And didn’t stop crying for the following months.

It transpired like this. 

Paolo would wake up early, far too early, by his daughter’s wailing. Half-awake he’d feed her, burp her, and then comfort her in his arms as he got about getting ready for his day. Once it was time for him to leave to go to work (paternity leave was nowhere near good enough to cover for them) he left her with his elderly widowed neighbour who was sore for company and, because of her meager pension, pocket money. He’d get home and hold Italia in his arms and she’d squirm and cough and cry, and he’d rock her through it, confused and tired.

She never stopped crying. The neighbours complained. He kept losing sleep. The GP told him she was healthy, all was well, but watch out for colics. 

This kept up for months. There were the stress and anxieties he had to brace himself against - calling in sick for work and getting no pay for that day, because Assunta had stopped trusting him, Italia constantly wheezing and coughing, Paolo fearful she was going to die due to his own negligence, dying a dozen deaths in the waiting office.

But also.

There was Italia sitting up in her crib, six months old and laughing as he dangled a toy in front of her. There was her rocking herself back and forth, cooing back at him, her beautiful brown eyes looking up at him like he was her world. 

There was Italia, soothed after crying for hours from teething pains, snuffling, crawling up to him and saying something that could’ve approximated “babo” and he’d pulled for his phone to record, laughing happily along with her, joyful in her growth. 

And then crying, harder, when he realized he had no one to share the video with. No one else to witness Italia growing bolder, reaching now for her toys with arms outstretched, her hair growing in beautifully in satin tufts; they were alone the two of them. 

When he clutched her then, face distorted in hiccuping tears, Italia made a distressed rasping sound and started wailing herself, confused and scared. He had to wipe his face and cradle her, shushing her, they were fine. They were alright. 

They would get through this. 

Then his apartment building got condemned. 

Italia was 8 months old at that point, which was the unit of measurement Paolo now used for time. It happened rather quickly. One day he got a letter from his landlord, explaining that they’d found mold and due to the age of the building it couldn’t be contained. They had to leave. Preferably before a month had passed.

He was holding Italia as he read through the letter and idly bouncing her as she sucked on her thumb, dozing against the crook of his neck. He sat down and leaned his head against hers, begging the Lord if he were there to grant him strength. 

Perhaps that was His punishment. He wasn’t meant to have children, so now He was punishing him for his sin by hurling one calamity after another. 

He still didn’t know why Italia kept waking herself up coughing and the GP kept overlooking that whenever he brought it up, and the internet was only giving him horrible explanations and-

That wasn’t going to solve their problems. Worrying wasn’t going to solve anything. He got up and went to put Italia in her crib, so he could pull his laptop out and look for flats in Torino with cheap rent he could move into on short notice. But Italia started crying the moment he was away from her and she woke up, and Paolo was forced to take his laptop to her side of the flat and pull up a chair beside her, so he could balance his laptop on his knees and shush her whenever she squirmed.

There were no cheap flats. And all the ones available he couldn’t move into so soon.

He was beginning to freak out, calling every single number he had on his phone, Italia’s grandma, Assunta, old colleagues - none of them were able or willing to house them.

Desperation clawed its way up his throat and he pulled at his hair, trying to keep in the frustration that wanted to be released in hoarse yelling. He struggled to keep himself in order even for Italia. It was hard to do much of anything, but make calls and refresh listings and beg just for one sliver of mercy from fate.

He got a call one afternoon while he was changing Italia’s diaper, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop as he was reading over another flat listing. He fastened it and scrambled for his phone, hoping it was one of the landlords he’d contacted, or perhaps Assunta who had come through on her promise to ask around. 

It was Mario. 

Jaw clenched, he considered pressing the volume down button and letting his phone silently ring until Mario got tired. He didn’t know how to talk to him now. Remorse and gratitude were a mixed bag and the last thing he wanted right now was the awkwardness that fell over them whenever they talked.

But he also needed a friend the most then. And Mario had been that for him for over eight years before their break up.

“Pronto.”

“Paolo,” his voice was warm as ever, even over the tinny speakers of his phone. He was a mild man, like Paolo, made even milder by the hesitation of their friendship. “We haven’t spoken in a while. I wanted to ask after you and baby. How are you doing?”

Paolo opened his mouth to answer, then swallowed thickly when he realized he couldn’t lie and say he was fine without choking up. 

“We’re getting evicted,” was all Paolo managed to get out in a rush. “We have to evacuate in less than three weeks and we have nowhere to go and she won’t stop coughing and I’m scared-”

The last part was a shaky rasp and his fingers itched for a cigarette, but he kept none, having quit them the moment Italia had come into his life. 

“You can stay with us,” Mario said after a beat of silence and Paolo’s chest squeezed. “We- I was going to tell you this over the phone, but we moved to Molise recently. In our new house we have two guest bedrooms. They’re not fully furnished yet, but they will do.”

“I can’t. Mario, I can’t impose myself on you, you've done enough,” there was the familiar prickle of tears and he scrubbed a hand across his face and into his hair.

“I’m not doing this just for you. Your daughter is the most important thing right now. I can’t leave you on the street. Pack everything you can. I’ll come by in a few days with the car. We’ll see how much we can fit.”

Paolo looked over at his daughter, who was preoccupied with one of the curtain tassels hanging over her and swallowed his need to reject his offer and try to find his way out himself. This wasn’t for him. This was for Italia. 

“Okay.”

They exchanged a few more words and then hung up. 

Paolo didn’t thank him, nor did he apologize. He feared that if he began he wouldn’t know where to stop. He had so much to be grateful and sorry for when it came to Mario. 

There was no furniture in the flat that Paolo was unwilling to part with, except for the crib. He disassembled it and fit it into the car like tetris pieces, his own luggage fit into a duffel bag and Italia’s in the biggest suitcase and bag he could find, her pram folded on top. 

He’d worried about how they were going to fit Italia in the car, worrying about it crashing and her being crushed, because they hadn’t followed the guidelines and bought a booster seat. But then Mario had opened the door and he saw that he’d already fastened a baby car seat in the back.

He looked over to Mario, bouncing his daughter on his hip, and Mario saw his expression and smiled, eyes crinkling, bright and kind and tired. 

“My nephews outgrew it, so I asked Gaia if she could give it to me. Come on, pass her over to me and I’ll show you how it gets buckled.” He reached out for Italia and Paolo’s arm tightened briefly around her, before he passed her over to Mario, knowing full well he’d be gentle with her. The same way he was in every other aspect of his life. 

Italia was all smiles once she was in his arms and Paolo busied himself with putting his computer bag and personal belongings between the seats, so he wouldn’t have to look at his ex with his child. Mario got distracted the moment she began cooing and took a moment to swing her around a bit to her joyful, giggling delight. When Paolo looked back up Italia was tugging on Mario’s beard and he winced sympathetically.

“No tugging on uncle Mario’s beard now,” he reprimanded softly, prying her tiny fingers away. “There you go, love.”

He bounced her once, twice, then bent over and placed her and her blanket inside the seat, buckling her in securely. He smiled over his shoulder and winked at Paolo, before he raised himself up and Paolo had to look away, because he didn’t know what the appropriate response was and he felt like he was on thin ice already. 

The drive from Torino to Molise was 870 kilometers. That was 9 hours of straight driving. Made even longer when Mario complained about a driver hogging the fast lane.

“Move, you stupid bastard!” He exclaimed and Italia woke up with a whimper and proceeded to cry in distress over being woken up so rudely. 

Mario immediately pressed a hand to his face, mollified, as Paolo frantically turned around and tried to soothe her, his neck twisting awkwardly, the belt digging into him. 

“I’m pulling over, oh God, I’m so sorry.”

He pulled over at the first possible emergency spot and they all got out of the car, Paolo immediately going for the car door to lift Italia in his arms and soothe her. She was coughing again now, her crying having tired her out.

Mario was beside him, looking at her with a frown on his face.

"You did mention she was coughing. Is that normal?"

Paolo whirled around to him. "I don't know. She's been doing it a lot and whenever I brought it up with the pediatrician he just brushed me aside." He sighed, feeling Italia's head slump forward on his shoulder.

“Why did you have to move out again?”

“The eviction letter said something about black mold being found in one of the apartments upstairs. I didn’t really pay much attention past the part where we had to move out on much shorter notice.”

Mario was looking at her with more intensity now, a familiar crease between his eyebrows forming.

“Paolo I’m not going to say anything, because I fear that if I do, I will feel the need to strike you and I can’t do that while you’re still holding your daughter. The moment we get home we’re calling a doctor friend of mine and then I’ll yell at you for a good few hours. Understand?” 

It was a wild change of tone and Paolo nodded minutely, feeling small and helpless. He’d take being yelled if it meant there was another adult with him, taking the reins for once.

Campobasso was the capital of the Molise region, surrounded by the Sannio and Matese mountains. Being so close to the Apennines the late autumn weather was cool and unforgiving as it nipped at Paolo’s cheeks and nose. 

The house where Mario and his boyfriend lived was on Via Venezia, a chain of pale terrace houses backed by the lush greenery of the old town park behind it. He could just make out the top of the Monforte castle, but he had to crane his neck to do so.

A sour man with dark hair in tight curls, a glinting silver earring in one ear and sparse beard was waiting at them outside one of the main entrances. He recognized him after a moment as Valerio - the man he’d pulled away from Mario in a gay club almost a year ago. He winced. That had been the first and last time they’d seen each other and it had probably not left a positive impression. 

He nodded in Paolo’s direction curtly when he exited the car. 

“Give me the lightest bags and that’s all the help you’re getting after making me put together a guest bed all by myself,” were his warm words to his boyfriend, before he got all the luggage he’d promised to carry and disappeared up the narrow staircase.

The house itself was spacious. Furnished with what looked to be all new furniture and the remnants of unpeeled tape around the walls signifying a recent paint job. What was most important to him at that moment, though, was the inviting couch in the living room that looked really soft, with a quilted blanket laid on top. After 9 hours of riding in the car he was completely spent and didn't know how Mario had enough energy to whirl around from room to room. 

He probably had to go help, shit. 

He went to rise from where he was laying on the couch, but Valerio stopped him with a dark look, bedsheets and towels gathered in his arms. "Take a nap or stay awake, I don't care, but don't attempt to do anything, because you're going to get underfoot. We'll take over from here."

Paolo tried to say thanks, but Valerio was already leaving. He slumped back on the blanket and closed his eyes, promising himself it would be a brief nap.

He woke up in the dark disoriented, head throbbing with pain and mouth dry and his first thought was 'where's Italia'.

He got up so fast his head spun and he almost got tangled in the blanket and toppled to the floor. He didn't remember covering himself before knocking himself out. One of them, most likely Mario, must've covered him.

He didn't know where to look for his daughter, behind which door, but then he followed the sounds of his baby's cooing and hushed quiet whispers behind one of the open doors. He walked up to it, light spilling out from the slit, contrasted against the darkness of the corridor.

He was about to push it open and announce himself, before he caught the tail-end of what Valerio was saying.

"- and look how he dressed her. Abysmal. You look like a charity case." The last part he said to Italia, who was seated in Mario's lap on the floor next to the legs of the disassembled baby crib. Valerio was holding one of the frames, screwing it in-between gesticulating with the screwdriver.

"It was bad, Vale. I don't know how he managed by himself for all these months, but it seems it wasn't very well," Mario was playing with her hands, reverently caressing them and placing kisses on the top of her head, making her squirm happily. They look good, Paolo thought. They look like a family ought to. "I feel bad for this tiny girl for having to live there for so long."

Okay. That was enough. He stepped away quietly, then loudly padded over to the door and knocked before pushing it open.

Both of them turned to him, startled and guilty, and Italia used the opportunity to tug on a stray curl from Valerio's mane of hair, making him hiss.

"Slept well? You looked like death itself," Mario gave him a faint smile and Paolo nodded mutely in response, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. His face turned serious. "Listen, I called my pediatrician friend, she said she's showing symptoms of asthma and it's likely it was caused by the mold exposure. Allergens and all that. We have an appointment tomorrow with her to make sure."

He nodded again, struck dumb. Asthma. She had asthma and he couldn't tell. She had been made sick living in his apartment. 

"This is serious, Paolo. She could've suffocated at any point, why didn't you check it out?"

"When I brought it up with the doctor he ignored-"

Valerio shot him his iciest look yet. "Then you press goddamn it! You push just to make sure she's okay! You can be a doormat all you want on your own time, but you can't play with your daughter's life like that." He snarled and Paolo felt himself made even smaller. 

Italia looked over at him and frowned, her face scrunching up the way it did pre-crying and she started squirming away from Mario, who was trying and failing to placate her. Paolo was by her side immediately, taking her in his arms and shushing her with practiced ease he'd developed over a hundred sleepless nights.

She whined in a familiar way and he turned this way and that looking for her bag, before he saw it on top of an open dresser, already full of carefully folded baby clothes. He took out her binkie out of its cover and she took it eagerly, finally calmer.

"I'm sorry, my love. I'm so sorry I didn't notice. I'm sorry," he whispered into her soft hair, the words for her ears only. "You'll be okay soon. Take you to a proper doctor and then we'll be fine."

They'll be fine. That had become his mantra since she'd become his and he had to believe in that. 

She placed her tiny hand on his stubbled chin and he took it in his to kiss. Maybe one day he'll be forgiven. But not by himself.

Valerio and Mario were looking at him with unreadable expressions on their faces when he turned back to them.

"I've been making a hack of this haven't I?" He said, his voice frail.

Mario nodded, but then he unfolded his legs and rose, walking towards him. He placed a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder and said, "You were alone. But you're not anymore." 

And then he was being enveloped in one of Mario's comfort half hugs, his forehead falling to the nape of his neck and resting there the same as Italia was doing to his own.

He blinked rapidly, swallowing thickly before pulling away. Life felt a bit lighter now that he had a shoulder to lean on. Even for a brief period of time. Before he found his bearings.

"Now that that's out of the way can you help me with this godforsaken crib, because it does actually need to be finished some time before midnight." That was Valerio's acerbic voice from the floor. He had picked up one of the legs to attach to the frame and was busying himself with it.

Mario snorted and shot him a look over his shoulder, before turning back to Italia.

"You know, you never told us her name," he was stroking her chubby cheek gently.

"Oh! Oh, that's right. I haven't introduced her properly, have I?" Paolo shifted his hold on her to raise her up and turn her towards them. "Meet Italia. Italia, meet Valerio and Mario." He took her tiny arm and raised it in a wave. Italia sucked on her binkie still, looking up at them with her sparkly eyes. 

Utter silence fell over the room. Valerio shut his eyes tightly and pressed his face against the leg of the crib. Mario's face looked pained.

Valerio took a deep breath and then, voice strained, pronounced, "THAT IS THE WORST NAME WHAT THE  _ FUCK _ ARE YOU  _ INSANE _ ?"

Mario tried to shush him, but didn't disagree.

"I didn't pick it." Paolo said weakly.

"Jesus Christ give me strength. You sound like a fascist naming her that." Fascistone. He winced.

"It's not because of that," he protested, but Valerio shook his head.

"Go and heat the leftovers we have in the fridge for dinner. Mario is going to help me with this."

And that was his dismissal. He did as told and left the two of them to their work, glad to be spared from it a second time.

They took her to the doctor's office in the morning. Mario had taken the week off from his job to help Paolo get settled, so he accompanied him.

The doctor confirmed that, yes, she did have asthma, her airways having swollen up, and prescribed her medication for it. An inhaler with a spacer and a facemask. When the doctor turned to him she had evidently seen whatever distressed expression he was making, and was quick to assure him she was otherwise a healthy young girl.

Keyword "otherwise".

It was something Italia would have to deal with for the rest of her life, due to circumstances that were entirely his fault and that fact plagued Paolo. 

Valerio was a docent at Università degli Studi del Molise, in the department of agriculture and environmental science. He had early lectures most of the time and came home in the afternoon. 

Mario was a researcher at the medical center and kept odd hours. He'd leave earlier than Valerio and return in the evening, if not even later.

Paolo, unemployed and focusing all of his time during the day on taking care of his daughter, doing chores around the house and looking for flats, learned what it meant to be a stay at home parent. 

It was pretty nice.

Much better than his life back in Torino, when he struggled every day just to get by and was drowning in his own overwhelming loneliness and stress.

He had time to actually take her out for walks now, pushing her in her pram along the streets and getting to know Campobasso at the same time as her. They played in the sun and she marveled at the colourful leaves on the ground. And then tried to eat them as she did everything else in her vicinity when Paolo brought the leaves closer for inspection, and then became irritable when she couldn't. 

He also began cooking again. Small things. Easy dishes he'd learned how to make early on in his and Mario's relationship, so he could help him as he got through his doctorate degree. 

Except this time it was for both Mario and Valerio, who were preoccupied with work and already helping enough with Italia for Paolo to wish to unburden them from their kitchen responsibilities at the very least.

Valerio, as was his default with Paolo, was highly critical of his cooking, expressing disdain at every attempt he made. 

He thought it was just his privilege to have Valerio picking him apart about the amount of salt he used, because Valerio didn't make it a secret he despised him. But then one night Mario got back home earlier than usual and had time to fully immerse himself in the kitchen, where he truly excelled, and Valerio flanked him immediately, perching himself up on the counter and scrutinizing his every move.

"Did you even put any butter in the risotto? It looks like sand. It also looks like it would taste like sand.” 

Mario’s only response was to huff and put in more butter. 

A little bit later Paolo heard a displeased, “are you putting in onions instead of shallots? Do better.”

It was 20 minutes after that there was an exasperated exclamation from Mario, “Vale I love you but if you say one more word about this you will be sleeping on the couch.” 

That did not deter Valerio. He kept it up well until mealtime. 

And yet sometimes his comments to Paolo were a bit much. 

He’d made carbonara one night and they were seated as usual. Valerio was as far away from Paolo as he could be while sitting on a round table and Italia was between him and Mario, where they both took turns feeding her.

“How did you manage to fuck up boiling pasta is what I’d like to know,” Valerio muttered. “Your mother would be disappointed.”

Paolo clenched his jaw, not turning away from Italia, who was too excited and fidgety to accept the puree he was trying to feed her. “I don’t know if she would be. She left me at the orphanage before she could tell me about her culinary secrets.”

Valerio snorted, the sound suddenly more irritating than it was usually, “I’d leave my son too if he overcooked his p-” “-Val, don’t.” 

The chair was screeching behind Paolo before he even realized he was pulling away and getting up from the table. 

“Excuse me.”

He still felt a bit shaky and wired as he made his way down the staircase and out into the bitter cold of November. It was his coldest night in Campobasso yet and he hadn’t thought to slip on his jacket before hurrying out the door, but he was angry enough to hit Valerio if he saw him on his way back inside, so he persevered.

He walked aimlessly down familiar streets, made stranger and eerier by the darkness that enveloped them. By the time he’d circled back around to their neighbourhood, he felt more tired and empty than he did angry.

His phone told him it had been two hours since dinner time. He’d been away longer than he thought he would be.

“I’m almost disappointed you’re back. Told Mario you’d run away with your tail between your legs.” 

Valerio. The last person he wanted to see, leaning on the door to the living room.

Paolo looked down as he unlaced his trainers and dropped his key on the shoerack. The couple’s keys had matching souvenir keychains from a trip to Siracusa; Paolo’s was lone and still bearing the sticker it’d had fresh from the box.

“Why does everything have to be a fight with you?” he muttered, brushing past him to his and Italia’s room. 

“Why do you always just duck your head and take it like a coward?” countered Valerio. 

Paolo whirled around to him. “I’m sorry that I have to impose myself on you with my daughter, okay? I don’t want it any more than you do, but there’s nothing I can do about it while I’m still looking for somewhere else to move. So, _ please _ . Can you stop antagonising me? Even for a bit?”

“Very charitable for you to think you will be able to move out and take care of her by yourself.”

“Jesus Mary wept, just fuck off.”

Valerio shut the door behind himself with less force than he would have liked to and pulled the chair he’d borrowed from the kitchen closer to Italia’s crib. He proceeded to refresh immobiliare.it for the rest of the night.

It was over the weekend when Mario approached him as he was making breakfast (french toast with crisp edges and the right amount of powdered sugar for a 32 year old man- which was most all of it- for Valerio and plain toast for Mario). His daughter was crawling around on the carpet in the adjacent living room and Paolo was fretfully keeping an eye on her while flipping the final toast in the pan, to make sure she didn't eat anything she shouldn't that he hadn't picked up. 

Mario came over to him and leaned on the kitchen table, his own eyes following her.

"You don't have to make us breakfast every morning."

Paolo shrugged and took a moment to carefully plate and powder Valerio's toasts before he set them on the table. Mario reached out and plucked his own breakfast to nibble on with his tea.

"You're already doing so much for me and it's no bother for me really." Plus he ate no breakfast himself and nor did he drink coffee. So in the mornings after Italia was taken care of and left to roam by herself, he found himself sinking into his own thoughts, which were less than savoury. Nothing short of doing something useful with his hands could get him out of his reveries.

"You know you're not imposing, right? Valerio is prickly, but he wants you two here as much as I do. For as long as you need."

Paolo found that  _ really _ hard to believe. But he didn't like that he had to rely on them either. He wanted to make it through by himself and if that meant struggling on his own, then so be it. 

His conversation with Valerio had only reminded him of that. He'd grown softer, letting himself bask in all the free time he'd gotten. No good thing ever lasted and he had to nip it in the bud before he got too used to it.

"Paolo?" Mario placed his palm on top of his hand when he took too long to respond. "What did we say about going inside your head?"

He shook his head and smiled thinly up at him, picking up a towel to dry the counter from any stray powdered sugar. "It's nothing. Look, I have some apartment viewings I have to do over the coming weeks and I was wondering if either one of you could look after Italia while I'm away? I don't want to take her with me."

Mario's face fell for a moment and Paolo couldn't understand why. "Of course, I- yeah. Yeah we can arrange something. But-"

Whatever he'd been meaning to say was cut off by Valerio, exclaiming, "Who left this stink bug on the floor? Don't give me that look you  _ are _ very stinky."

Paolo and Mario both watched as Valerio, laptop half open in his hands, tried to get on the couch without stepping on her. He set his laptop down on the coffee table and Italia used the opportunity to brace herself against his leg and heave herself upright. Then she stretched her arms up toward him, face imploring and making the same babbling noises she did whenever she wanted to be lifted up.

"Su, su!" 

"Paolo come get your progeny, it's barking up the wrong tree."

Italia kept reaching out. "Su, su!"

Valerio wasn't moving.

Paolo threw the towel down on the counter forcefully.

"She won't bite you if that's what you're scared of," he snarled. Valerio shot him one of his signature dark looks. He wasn't backing down, but he also wasn't stepping away to dislodge her.

Italia was slowly growing frustrated with being ignored and instead began tugging on his pantleg.

"For God's sake Paolo Proietti just come get your baby already!"

"I'll take her," Mario interjected before he could respond and took two strides to her side. "You want up, love? Come here. Oissa! Hoo you're heavy. Babbo's been feeding you hasn't he?" 

Italia, having gotten what she wanted, smoothed over her frown, but still remained unsatisfied as she suckled on her thumb. Mario tried to put distance between them and Valerio, who was still rooted to the spot and unmoving, but Italia reached out to him with a whine.

"She wants to be held by you, Vale," murmured Mario and Valerio stiffened.

"I'm not holding her. I-I can't." 

"You can hate me all you want, but I don't see why you have to drag my daughter into this." Paolo scowled down at the plate of french toasts, suddenly wishing he'd forgone making them in the first place.

Valerio turned to go, but his boyfriend stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You want to be held by babbo instead, darling? Uncle Mario has to go talk to your other uncle." He paused meaningfully and Italia babbled back at him in assent. 

Mario handed her over to Paolo, who was still quietly seething, but relaxed when his drooling daughter was happily deposited back to him. She smacked him in the face with her wet, sticky hand and he smiled through his wince.

“You’re right. We won’t be here for long anyway.” He nuzzled her and she cooed back at him, landing another smack.

The viewings did not go well. 

Paolo had savings he’d stashed in case something went wrong (for example getting his apartment condemned and needing to move out on illegally short notice), but that had been before Italia and he’d dipped into them after she’d come. Unemployment benefits would’ve helped if they weren’t meager. And if he didn’t use a good portion each month for grocery shopping. 

All the apartments he saw were either too costly or small, or just plain unsuitable for living in with his daughter. 

If he wanted to move out he had to find another job. But that meant leaving Italia by herself until Valerio came home in the meantime and, given the fact the man was reluctant to even hold her, even then she’d be alone. 

There was no way out of this. 

After his last apartment for the day Paolo came back late, already eager to see his daughter and play with her before dinnertime. He found his room’s door ajar, Valerio inside, his back to the door, leaned over Italia’s crib with one arm inside, and before Paolo could think twice he tugged him away forcefully.

“What the hell are you doing?” He hissed and then. To his surprise found that Valerio’s eyes were red and glassy. He shrugged away Paolo’s hand.

“You think I’d hurt an infant?” He snarled. It didn’t have its usual edge when it was tinted with tears and he seemed to sense it, almost embarrassed about it. 

“I don’t know what I think. I don’t think you do either. One moment you’re disgusted by her, the next you’re, what?”

“I was stroking her,” he said, more brittle than he’d ever heard him. Probably more brittle than the man’s been in his life. “I’m jealous. Not disgusted. God, you look so stupid right now.”

“Why are you jealous?” Paolo asked, careful, already fearing he knew the answer.

Valerio sighed and ducked his head, running his hand through his mess of curls. Then he huffed and raised his head to look at the ceiling with wet eyes. Whether to stop himself from crying or to ask for strength from the Almighty, Paolo couldn’t tell. Enough time passed, however, that when Valerio finally answered quietly he was startled. “Mario and I got together, because we both wanted a family. We tried several times for children, but...” 

He lapsed into silence again, eyes distant.

Paolo rubbed his neck, uncomfortable and eager to have this conversation done with. “Like with a surrogate?” To his befuddlement he got a huff of laughter in response.

“No, missionary style,” he said wryly. Then decided to spare Paolo from his misery when he explained, “I’m trans, Paolo. Female to male.”

“Oh.” He tried to think about all things he knew about trans people. He came up with nothing, save for the one trans woman he’d bummed a cigarette off of outside a gay bar once. “Okay?”

“Glad you think it’s okay.” Valerio sounded waspish again and it was a relief. “We didn’t have any luck. Then I had to have a hysterectomy and we were left with adoption as our only option. If you think it’s hard adopting when you’re gay in Italy, try adopting when you’re gay  _ and _ trans.”

“I’m sorry,” he said and didn’t know what for, but felt like he had to say it anyway.

“We moved into this house, because we wanted more room for any potential kids, but we’ve had no luck so far. Probably never will. That’s why you make me so angry. You spent years arguing against people like us ever having children and then you get a child dropped in your lap, when I had to--” He took a deep breath. “It’s just not fair. That’s why I am jealous.”

Paolo couldn’t imagine it. Trying to conceive time and time again and not succeeding, and just how crushing it must’ve been. Mourning each and every possibility that never was. Unbidden, the thought of his own mother came back to him. It  _ was _ unfair. That couples like them, who desperately wanted to bring and nurture life didn’t get to. And couples who could, just brought and didn’t do much nurturing after the fact.

“There he goes back in his head,” Valerio sighed, put upon. He turned back to his daughter and reached out to stroke a reverent finger down her cheek. "Well, there you have it. I'm not trying to be cruel to her. I just can't afford to grow attached to her and then have her be taken away." Italia stirred a little, rolling over on her other side, little hand finding Valerio's finger and wrapping around it. 

Valerio looked about as unmanned as Paolo himself felt whenever she did that for him.

"Maybe it's already too late," he whispered, more to himself than anything.

"If it's any consolation, we're not likely to be moving out any time soon," Paolo said and Valerio glanced at him briefly.

"No. No you aren't."

Something changed in Valerio after that. Not in the way he behaved with Paolo, but with Italia. He'd actually hold her and play with her when she came up to him.

He still called her names, but now Valerio detected the affection in them he'd neglected before.

"When are you going to start walking, meatball?" He'd ask as she crawled on the floor, chasing after a ball. "You're just rolling about. How undignified."

Paolo thought he'd finally found the explanation for the way he was. Something in Valerio was just fundamentally fucked up. He couldn't say anything without making it aggressive. Couldn't express affection without covering it in spikes. 

His love was a hardened thing hidden under layers and layers of protective filters.

It was labour loving a man, who couldn't let himself be loved without making it a fight. And even more so when that love was unwanted to begin with. Mario and Italia had the easiest time with it. They were wired to see the truth behind each spike and were allowed to revel in the love. Paolo simply felt on edge every time Valerio walked into a room.

Paolo didn't feel like an outsider. He  _ didn't. _ He was glad to see his daughter cared for and happy. And if she could have that without him in the picture, then maybe… Maybe that was the way it should be.

Paolo kept up his flat hunt. He didn’t bring it up with the couple, because the silent looks they shot each other grated on his nerves. He’d sometimes ask one of them to look after her for a day and then he’d return more tired and defeated.

Except a plan was brewing in his mind. He didn’t like it, but it just made sense. The way what he was doing up to that point hadn’t. 

On a rare day off for both of them they offered to take Italia - or Talia as Valerio was now calling her - out on a walk, leaving Paolo to ‘rest’. He would’ve made the effort to explain he didn’t need more rest, because whenever he got it, his thoughts circled aimlessly and convinced him of all manners of horrible things. He knew, however, that his well-being wasn’t the goal of this exercise. 

He paced, cleaned the bathroom, fixed the leg on the wobbling kitchen table and then, as he was wiping the windows clean, saw them coming back. Italia was perched on Mario’s shoulders, bundled in the new winter jacket they’d bought her, staring in wonder as the first snow for the year started falling, looking happy and healthy. Mario and Valerio were shooting each other the soppiest looks. Paolo watched as Valerio reached out to tug Italia’s hat firmly over her ears, then smoothing his hand gently over her head. He looked away.

It just made sense.

"We've got to make her watch Winx when she's a bit older," Valerio said as he was flipping through one of Italia's baby books, spread out horizontally on the couch. "But only the first seasons. No self respecting Italian child living under this roof will watch the 3-D garbage."

Paolo, who was younger than Valerio and had still been too old to watch the show as it came out said, "The first seasons were bad too. It makes no difference."

"How would you know, orphan boy?"

"I grew up in an orphanage, not a prison. We did actually have TVs. And don't call me orphan boy again unless you're looking to get punched."

"They have TVs in prisons too," Mario supplied from the kitchen table. He had Italia in his lap, who looked like she had nowhere else she'd rather be as she watched him type at a document on his computer. "You can do Winx, but as long as I can show her Transformers. Oh, and Power Rangers. We can buy her all the toys! My parents never bought me the toys." Valerio let out a derisive snort at that.

It was odd hearing them talk so sure of their future together with her. For them, already, it was an inevitability that they’d see her grow up.

"Paolo Dell’Orfano what horrible kids' media will you subject your child to? For when she's old enough to talk, but not old enough to have taste." 

He straightened up from where he was picking up scattered toys with a glare and a raised fist at Valerio. At his insouciant smirk though he sighed and let it up, as he cracked his neck in thought. He hadn't thought that far ahead.

He racked his brain for all the things he'd liked as a kid and found that it was a mix of all the other kids around him's preferences. He'd watched Cheburashka with the Ukranian boy who had been his best and only friend up until the point when he got adopted. Had watched compilations of old Tom and Jerry shorts, burned on a blank DVD by one of the more tech savvy nuns, with the younger children whenever there was a storm and they needed distraction. Had watched all the classics that cycled on TV when the holidays rolled around, always a bit too late and dubbed by the same five voice actors. 

He hadn't had a particular childhood obsession, something to glue him to one fictional world and let him get lost for a bit. This, among many other things, he couldn't pass down to Italia. 

"I don't know. Whatever's popular with kids these days I guess?"

Mario and Valerio both groaned at that.

"No Paw Patrol!" They said simultaneously. Paolo had no idea what they were talking about and felt no need to ask.

“Hey, Paolo Ritrovato.”

Paolo didn’t turn around. 

“Paolo Della Casagrande, I’m talking to you.”

He still didn’t turn away from the pot he was stirring. Whatever cooking tips Valerio felt like doling out today, he wasn’t going to take them. It was a bad day just overall. He’d spent the last few days with a sense of finality and dread weighing on his heart. If Italia had noticed that he was holding onto her a bit longer and a bit tighter than usual, she showed it by being in a bad mood herself.

“The orphan names were never funny and they’re not gonna become funny any time soon,” he groused.

“Paolo Fox, then.”

Paolo turned around at that. “Wh-”

“The astrologer, yeah.” Valerio smirked. “Now that I have your attention, your phone’s been ringing for the past five minutes.”

Oh shit. That had been the call he was expecting. He threw the wooden spoon at Valerio and sped past him. “Watch the pot.”

“You don’t want me doing that-” Valerio began to say, but Paolo had already shut the door behind him and drowned him out.

It had been the worst phone call he’d ever had to make. Except maybe for the break up call with Mario. Then again he hadn’t known going into it that it’d be a break up call. This he’d been preparing himself for for weeks. 

He pressed the phone against his forehead when he was done, taking a moment to center himself. It was snowing outside the window when he looked. Had been for hours it seemed, as it had piled up heavily. Even the sky was bleak and white, the city enveloped in fog.

The smell of burning hit him first thing as he walked out of the room, phone still clenched tightly in his hand. He ran toward the kitchen to find Mario returned home, lifting the lid of the pot with a frown on his face. Valerio to the side with his head in his hands.

“You’re supposed to stir, Vale,” Mario was saying.

“How the fuck should I know that? He just said to ‘watch the pot’. Which I did.”

Paolo leaned over and winced. There went dinner. “How did this happen?”

“Valerio is forbidden from stepping into the kitchen. Whatever he touches, he ruins.” 

“You’re the most pretentious bastard when it comes to food and you can’t even cook?” Paolo exclaimed, incredulous and a bit peeved.

“Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach,” murmured Mario, with the practiced ease of someone, who knew how to push the right buttons.

“Say that again and I’ll rip your throat out-”

“Yes, yes, alright. Before you do, can we talk about how we have nothing to eat now.” Paolo interjected as he turned the stove off, before they began their weird bickering foreplay. 

“We can order a pizza?” suggested Valerio.

“Roads are iced over. We’re not having anyone drive here just because you can’t watch over one pot.” 

“I fucking  _ watched _ it you should’ve been more specific, asshole-”

“Guess we will have to eat it as it is,” decided Mario.

All three of them looked over at the pot. It smelled horrible, but it was food. It was supposed to be a good meal, over which Paolo could break the news. Something nice to top off what was surely going to be a good conversation for them, and a sour one for Paolo himself.

The one time Valerio had no complaints to be spared for the quality of the food, was when it was objectively horrible and unsalvageable. All three of them were miserably digging through it. Italia, on the other hand was having a great time playing with (read, making a mess out of) the tiny banana slices that Valerio tried to feed her. 

The one bit of levity they had were Mario’s pained facial expressions as he took a bite of a charred potato, still trying to keep a straight face through it, however as he mumbled, “Mmm, s’good!” 

Valerio and Paolo both burst out laughing. The laughter only escalated when Mario then proceeded to spit it out in a napkin. They looked at each other across the table, smiling still. And Paolo felt...well. A bit light. Like they were finally sharing something.

(Once a few weeks back Valerio had forgotten his lunch, and Paolo, Italia in his arms, had made the walk over to his department to hand it to him. Except he’d gotten lost and the gruff security guard had chased him down, yelling something rapid fire about not being allowed so far into the building and needing a pass, and Paolo struggled to explain that he just needed to see one of the staff. The man had grabbed him by the arm and Paolo had prepared himself to be roughly escorted out, when Valerio whirled suddenly on them. 

For the first time Paolo saw him turn his venom on someone else and he was a force to be reckoned with. He took his time viciously telling the man off for manhandling a, quote, ‘helpless little man holding a baby’.

Paolo had taken offence at being referred to as such, but didn’t protest. Valerio looked at him pointedly, eyes saying ‘my point exactly’, as he took Italia and his lunch from him. He took his break with them in the courtyard, and it had been one of the first instances of the hesitant camaraderie between them. Mostly because Italia had been there acting as buffer.)

“I found a flat,” Paolo began and immediately both men turned to him sharply. “It’s- uh- a bit tight, but I’ll be splitting rent with two other people, so it’ll be manageable while I find a job in the meantime.”

Valerio stared at him as if he’d grown two heads, line between his eyebrows comically deepening. Mario looked about the same.

“You- Paolo. You can’t raise a baby in a small flat with people you don’t know. Tell me you’re joking.”

Paolo hunched into himself further. “Yeah, about that. I thought, maybe I could leave her with you. You want a child, but can’t adopt, you said it yourself. I can sign away my rights to her and let you adopt her. I was only ever a parent to her on paper only.”

Valerio’s spoon clattered on the dish. He buried his head in his hands. Mario was gaping at him. 

That was not the reaction Paolo had been expecting.

An uncomfortable moment of silence settled over them, broken only by Italia’s growing discomfort at the atmosphere in the room. 

Valerio took a deep breath, then “I don’t even know why I fucking tried being nice to you. Shouldn’t have expected more, after all the apple truly doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stormed out of the room. 

Paolo’s eyes stung. He took a deep breath and looked at Mario, who was still looking at him in disbelief. “For the first time I think I agree with Val.” But he wasn’t angry. Just disappointed. And that hurt even more.

What had he done wrong?

“She’d be happy with you,” he managed, strangled. “Safe and comfortable. I only ever hurt her when she was with me.”

Mario shook his head, tired. He pushed away from the table as well and stood up, looming over Paolo for a moment, scrutinizing. Paolo searched his face back, trying not to give into the temptation to shrink away and hide. Then he broke their intense eye contact, reached out for Italia, lifting her out of her high chair and into his arms. She was frowning, batting at his face and trying to move away from him. Mario only smiled thinly at her and then carefully handed her over to Paolo, who was already reaching out for her.

She fit nicely into his arms, a familiar heavy weight he’d grown used to. She stopped fussing the moment she settled her head at the crook of his neck. 

“I need you to think carefully about whether or not you want to just leave her, and then we’ll talk tomorrow. Once we’ve all calmed down.” Mario didn’t look like he needed calming down. His tone was even as ever, if a bit frostier. 

Paolo nodded dumbly and tightened his arms around Italia. 

Mario nodded back, and took his and Valerio’s dishes away, to dump them in the bin presumably, then he left them alone.

The thing was. 

He didn’t want to give her up. In just a couple of months she’d become his whole world. He felt like he hadn’t had a purpose before her and now, at last, he was finally living only so he could take care of her. 

He loved her above all else (he’d say above himself, but he’d never even liked himself to begin with). And that’s why he had to give her up. She would never be able to have the life she deserved with him; only uncertainty and life with no prospects. Valerio and Mario were stable, had good salaries both of them, and if one of them adopted her, then they could get parental leave. 

He said as much to them the next day. He was sitting on a chair, facing them where they were sitting on the couch. He felt like he was being scolded by suor Agata again. He didn’t particularly care for the feeling.

When he chanced a look up at them he found that Mario had eased the hard frown he’d been wearing. Valerio was still glaring daggers at him. 

“That sounds all fine and good. But why does it have to be ‘either/or’. She either lives with you away from us, or she stays and you leave. You can be a part of the family too, Paolo.”

That made the gears in his head suddenly grind to a halt.

“No, I can’t. I have no place here I’m-”

“You’re what, signor Arfanetti?” Valerio finally spoke up. “A coward? A spineless pushover?”

“I’m not fit to have a family. I’m not meant to look after something so good and pure. What could I teach her as a parent? What have I done with my life that would be worth passing onto anyone? She’d be better off without me at all.” Paolo took a deep breath and realized he was panting. He’d managed to exert himself by speaking out the anxieties that had been plaguing him since day one. In the daylight, spoken out loud, they sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.

“Spare me,” Valerio’s voice was a drawl. “You want to know what I’ve observed about you, Paolo?” 

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me-” he muttered as Valerio spoke over him. 

“-you’re always trying to make yourself smaller. I don’t think you’ve fought even once for anything in your life. You just talk yourself out of things and settle.” Valerio folded his arms over his chest, but it didn't look defensive. He was just making himself comfortable as he leaned back and prepared himself for a speech. “That’s why you’re so unhappy all the time. You wanted to be an architect, but didn’t believe you had it in you, so you settled for working at IKEA. You wanted a family, but didn’t think you deserved it, so you spun a tale about how gays just can’t have children in order to convince yourself of your own bullshit. Now you’re trying to run away from us opening our home to you, because you think 'Talia's better off without you' when in reality you're just scared to try.”

He sorely wanted to ask how Valerio knew all this about him, but feared the answer would be 'because Mario talked about his shitty ex after you split up'. It would've been a distraction anyway. From how uncomfortably seen he felt then, pinned under Valerio's unrelenting gaze. “I-”

“Talia loves you. She needs you and you need her. Probably more so," Mario was the one to interrupt him this time. "So why can't you let yourself believe, even a little, that you're worthy enough for her?"

Because he just wasn't! Good things didn't happen to Paolo! He'd been orphaned as a baby, too young to have a say in the matter, and from then on fate had kissed him and declared him insignificant. Too puny to deserve any of the good karma in the world. He'd almost been adopted twice and each time had scared away the couple with his own wrongness. Had been loved by Mario for almost a decade and then had fucked up so bad he'd lost him altogether. Mia had come into his life and then- He'd soured everything in his life and he would only sour the life of any child unlucky enough to call him father.

A sob tore its way out of his throat as he said the word, and realized belatedly he hadn't kept all of this in his head. He pressed a shaking hand to his eyes and looked away.

"Paolo," a hand tugged on his wrist, he let it be pulled away, but didn't look toward Mario. Careful fingers were in his hair then, stroking him gently. He wanted to shrink away, wanted to dissolve into mist and rid the world of the memory that he'd ever existed at all. "Imagine Italia told you what you just told us. Would you want her to admit that she believed she should occupy as little space as possible? That she deserves less than the best of what the world has to offer?”

“No. No, I don’t want that for her. It’d break my heart.”

The hand slid to his cheek and pressed into it, the warmth searing his cold skin. He felt cold all over actually. The ends of his fingers prickled as if pins were being pressed into them.

“You should’ve grown up knowing you’re worth so much, Paolo. But you didn’t, because no one told you, and it’s okay to grieve that. But you need to learn how to take up space or Talia will never learn how and she’ll end up making the same mistakes as you. You need to be happy, if not for yourself, then for her.”

Paolo felt himself pulled up and into Mario’s embrace. He held him there, the same way he had embraced him his first night with them. ‘You’re not alone anymore’ he’d said. Paolo hadn’t believed it then. Still couldn’t now. But he was about to start learning how.

“Want it or not, we’ve already taken you into our home. Both Italia  _ and _ you,” he laughed into Paolo’s hair. “So stay with us. Let us be a family.”

“What kind of family is that, with a third wheel,” Paolo muttered, allowing himself to wrap his arms around his middle. Basking, just a little, in his warmth.

“It can be whatever kind of family we want it to be. But I was thinking one with three fathers and one very fortunate kid,” Mario pressed his wide hand against the nape of his neck and pulled away to look at him. 

“More like two fathers and two kids with the amount we have to take care of you,” Valerio said and stood up to leave, brushing a hand against Paolo’s arm as he went. “Roads aren’t iced over today, so I’m ordering us a pizza.”

“That’s a yes, right? You’ll stop trying to run away?” Mario asked and shook Paolo’s head a little.

“Maybe...Maybe if I’ll have you with me, then yes. I’ll be better,” he promised. And it felt like the beginning of something.

Perhaps he  _ was _ too fucked up for kids. But it wasn’t going to be just him taking care of her. However bad he messed up, there were going to be two more people there with him, helping him along the way. Picking him up and taking over when things were too difficult. 

So what if it was unconventional, so long as it worked?

It was early spring. Valerio was grading assignments in his office (what was technically the ex guest room and Paolo’s future bedroom once they were done painting the nursery). Mario was in the kitchen, making his infamous tiramisu, which was delicious, but garnered criticism from both Paolo and Valerio for his use of pavesini instead of savoiardi. 

Paolo was on the floor with his daughter, both of them laying on their backs and staring up at the ceiling. They had a pretty good back and forth going. Where she babbled at him and he responded back at her with whatever came to mind. 

This time it was ‘Il Tuono’ by Pascoli.

“-Roared, bounced, rolled in a dull sound/ then fell silent, then waved and broke/then vanished./Then was heard the gentle singing/ of a mother, and the rocking of a cradle-”

He cut himself off when Italia crawled over to the couch and grabbed hold of it to haul herself up. “I’m not that boring, am I? Tough crowd,” he muttered and lovingly reached out to stroke a hand down her back. Except, instead of staying there as she was prone to do, or hauling herself a few more times, she actually turned and began to waddle.

Whatever loud yelp he released, it was enough to summon both Valerio and Mario in the room, asking what happened, and then releasing similar yelps of their own.

“My phone! Grab my phone!” Valerio was saying, and then all three of them were around her, clapping and cheering as she made step after the other, waddling, but certain.

When she made her way toward Paolo, she crashed into his leg and rubbed her face there. 

Paolo was sure his face was swimming in tears, was even surer that Valerio had just snapped a photo of it to make fun of him with later. He didn’t care. Mario was the same.

What he cared about was that when he lifted her in his arms to embrace her, there were two more bodies pressing into him.

When Italia made her first attempts at walking there were three pairs of hands hovering over her, triple the amount of videos, and two people shedding emotional tears, while being laughed at.


End file.
